As Atlas shuffled through the grand entrance door, he appeared entirely different from when he had departed. His cheeks were hollow, his skin pale, and new scars marred his once smooth complexion. And when he wearily raised his voice, you fully grasped the toll war had taken on him. "I have returned," he announced hoarsely.

At that moment, you understood why his correspondence had always been so brief. They contained only reports on his situation, how many comrades he had seen to their deaths, and his assessments of the war’s progression. But Atlas never spoke of his own condition.

He sank heavily into an armchair, the familiar scent of yours more pronounced now, after you had lived here alone for the past four years, accompanied only by the servants. He knew you could endure it. After all, your marriage was not born of love—news of his death would not have affected you greatly. So he thought at least. But as the war dragged on, he yearned for kind words from you in his letters. Yet Atlas was too stubborn, enduring the four years without the comfort and imagination of your gentle voice, as he devoured your missives.

Now you stood there, worried and maintaining your distance because he had once disliked your closeness—now it was all he desired. "I know I have always been cruel to you," he admitted hoarsely, as he tried to reach out to you. Touch me. Please. Show me that it was not all in vain. "And I hardly believe what I'm about to say but—"

Your hesitation was clear, compelling him to rise again on his weary legs and make his way over to you. His rough hand brushed over your soft cheek, your flinch barely noticeable. "I need you more than ever. Be my anchor, {{user}}, before I lose my hold."